


Please Could You be Tender

by chanderson



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Break Up, Ending Relationship, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Sad Ending, Whamilton - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-01 23:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11497098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: Alex looks over at George, taking in his too-tight posture and the carefully constructed mask on his face. A marble statue fit for the Louvre. Handsome. Noble. Damaged.It would take a skilled sculptor to put George back together, to mend the spiderweb of cracks traversing the stone surface of his heart. But Alex is no sculptor, and he’s not really in the business of fixing the things he breaks. The damage is already done, so why bother now?





	1. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this based off Lorde's song Hard Feelings/Loveless. If you haven't listened to it then you should right now b/c it's the best song ever. 
> 
> I reference Four minutes, thirty-three seconds aka 4'33". That's a piece of music that's literally just silence. The sheet music tells the musicians not to play their instruments. It's cool af. 
> 
> This is super short b/c why actually develop things when you can write tiny one shots!
> 
> Enjoy :-)

Alex impassively watches the late-night world outside the foggy window. There’s the bum pushing his shopping cart full of his belongs, bundled up in a hodgepodge of winter clothes. A few steps behind him is a couple walking their dog, cautiously giving the guy a wide berth as they walk by in their coordinating running clothes. A fat man in a rumpled suit comes out of the 7/11 down the road, steps off the curb, and nervously looks both ways before scampering across the street, jaywalking. 

The only sound in the car is the loud whooshing of the heat and the plastic grocery bag rustling in the backseat. Alex looks over at George, taking in his too-tight posture and the carefully constructed mask on his face. A marble statue fit for the Louvre. 

Handsome.

Noble.

Damaged. 

The curators at the Louvre would be incredibly disappointed to find that the Roman God so generously deposited at their doorstep is missing _un cœur._

It would take a skilled sculptor to put George back together, to mend the spiderweb of cracks traversing the stone surface of his heart. 

But Alex is no sculptor, and he’s not really in the business of fixing the things he breaks. The damage is already done, so why bother now? 

Alex draws a line on the window, dragging his finger through the sheen of condensation. A streetlight shines brightly through the line. He adds two more lines and makes a smiley face. Soon the windows fogs back over and the smile is gone. 

The green numbers of the dashboard read 23:45—George always uses military time—and Alex awkwardly shifts his weight. It’s late and he’s lost track of how long they’ve been sitting here outside the little neighborhood market. They were getting a pack of toilet paper, coffee, and Triscuits. It’s freezing outside so George decided they should drive. George has always loved to drive, jumps at any opportunity to get behind the wheel. Once, on one of their impromptu summer road trips, he told Alex that cars made him feel safe.

Alex wonders if cars will still make George feel safe after tonight. He doubts it. 

The deafening silence in the car rivals that of John Cage’s _Four minutes, thirty-three seconds,_ and Alex idly reaches forward to fiddle with the radio. The car is suddenly filled with a screaming guitar chord and both of them flinch at the intrusion. Alex immediately turns the radio back off and lets his hand fall into his lap. 

The green numbers now read 23:56. 

“You’re going to kill your battery if we keep sitting here,” Alex says. 

George doesn’t acknowledge the comment, just turns the car off, nothing more than a slight flick of his wrist. The keys jingle as he drops them into the cup holder. Alex sighs loudly through his nose and shifts his weight. “Now it’s going to get cold in here.” 

Alex watches George clench his jaw with a sick sense of satisfaction. It’s the first outward show of emotions he’s displayed since Alex spoke the unspeakable. Since he let out the words that he’s been desperately trying to bury inside himself, attempting to tuck them under his liver in hopes that they wouldn’t float into his heart and out his mouth. 

But they did. 

And now the bag of groceries in the backseat feels stupid. A waste. George bought Alex’s favorite coffee, a kind he can only ever find at this particular little store. George doesn’t like it, thinks it’s too dark. Maybe he’ll let Alex take it. Maybe he’ll throw it away. 

Does it even matter anymore? 

Alex drums his fingers on the center console and makes a humming sound. He delights in the way George shudders. It’s almost imperceptible, but Alex _knows_ George. Knows him in the most intimate ways. He knows what George likes and what George hates. He knows when George is happy and when George is sad. 

And right now? Right now George is devastated. Broken. Shattered. 

Alex continues to drum his fingers, startling when George’s hand shoots out to easily incircle Alex’s thin wrist, halting his movements. Alex raises his eyebrows in surprise but doesn’t pull away. George squeezes his wrist gently before retreating back across the console. 

“Please stop doing that,” he says gruffly. His voice is shaking. Alex calmly folds his hands in his lap.

“Can you turn the car back on? And drive me to Jack Laurens’? I’ll get him to bring me by to start getting my stuff tomorrow.” 

George wordlessly sticks the keys back in the ignition, and the car purrs to life. His movements are stiff, jerky, as he puts the car in drive and pulls out of the parking lot. He punches a button and turns the defrost setting on. 

Alex stares out the window so he doesn’t have to watch George’s trembling lips. 

The streetlights blur past them, throwing shadows across the interior of the car. When Alex glances over at George, he marvels at the way the lights illuminate the wet tracks marring his tawny skin. Alex watches, mesmerized, as a tear rolls down his cheek, dangles off his chin, and falls onto the collar of his coat. 

Alex swallows and fights the urge to reach over and hold George’s hand. He did this to him. No going back now. This is what he wants—what he’s wanted for a while now. 

He’s surprised how easily the words rolled off his tongue after so many months of internal debate and deliberation. 

_I can’t do this anymore. It’s too much: The townhouse; the dogs. That’s not what I wanted. I didn’t sign up for this shit. I mean, what the fuck happened to us? I’m sorry, but I’m done, George._

Alex expected George to yell and argue with him.

Instead he just stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath. His face stayed calm, but his eyes were anything but. The raw pain in George’s expression shocked Alex. He watched the moment the fault lines in George’s heart cracked wide open, watched the marble shatter.

When the car rolls to a stop outside Jack’s house, Alex unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches for the door handle. His weight is already shifted forward. He’s ready to go—

“Alex, _please,”_ George chokes out before he sobs—a single, guttural sound that seems to tear itself out of his throat. It’s almost animalistic. Carnal. Then he sobs again, and something in Alex’s chest twists. He leans over the console, ignoring the way the hard plastic and leather dig into his stomach, and cradles George’s head against his chest. 

“Oh George,” he whispers. “I’m sorry baby. I’m so sorry.”

“Please don’t leave me. I’ll be better. _Please.”_

“Shh,” Alex shushes him as he strokes his cheek, trying to wipe away some of his tears. “You’re okay.”

They sit there, a single silhouette, as Alex holds George for the last time. Somewhere in the distance, police sirens are wailing and a dog is barking, but all of that fades to the background. Right now, inside this car, it’s just them. 

So when George crushes his lips against Alex’s, Alex lets him. He welcomes the kiss, curls his hand at the nape of George’s neck and tugs him closer. George’s snot and tears are salty on his lips, but Alex doesn’t mind. 

They kiss until Alex’s lips are sore and swollen. They devour each other, Alex swallowing each of the shuddering sobs George breathes into his mouth. 

Then Alex pulls back and wipes away one more of George’s tears.

“Alex,” George whispers.

Alex opens the door.

“I’ll always—”

His feet hit the wet pavement.

“Love—”

He slams the door shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK wtf this is. Hope everyone liked it lmao. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!


	2. The Landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to write a second lil short chapter for this!

George redecorates his house. 

It starts one night in a frantic moment of grief-induced anxiety. While the rest of the world sleeps, George rips artwork off the walls and yanks knickknacks off the shelves, all long-dead memories of sweet summers and soft kisses in the dark. It feels good at first, cathartic, but when the walls are finally re-painted and the new furniture is put in place, George feels hollow. Empty. 

He thought something new would make him feel better. Instead, it makes his loss ache even more—a constant pressure on his chest that threatens to tug him under. If he’s not careful, he’ll get swept up in the undertow and drown. 

Martha comes over the next day and looks around critically, pursing her lips. 

“I like it.” 

George nods, not knowing what to say. Martha arches an eyebrow and lays her hand on the new leather couch. “Do you like it?” 

“I hate it.”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he tastes his tears hot, salty, and bitter on his tongue. 

\---

George starts drinking more often. 

It starts one night in a pained moment of soul-sucking depression. One second he’s lying facedown on his bed, and the next he’s in the kitchen with a tumbler of whiskey clutched in his shaking fist. The alcohol burns on the way down and sloshes in his empty stomach. 

The more he drinks, the hotter he feels. Beads of sweat roll down his face like raindrops on a window; an inferno burns white hot, boiling right underneath his skin. He holds the cool glass against his flushed cheek and lets his heavy eyes drift closed. 

Even with his eyes closed, locked away in his own head, the room spins mercilessly. Around and around and around until George has to stumble to the couch and lay down before he falls over. He stares at his ceiling, studies the crown molding as his eyes track the room’s rotation—a constant, endless, loop-de-loop. 

He may have redecorated the house, but the ceilings are the same. Somehow, Alex’s ghost is still haunting George, hiding behind corners and inside closets. He’s there, laying in wait, ready to jump out and startle George. 

Ready to jump out and destroy George all over again. 

Everything is thick and fuzzy from the alcohol, and George’s head suddenly feels too full. There are too many thoughts, too many pictures, too many memories. 

He calls Martha sobbing, tells her that he feels so fucking lonely, so _lost_ without Alex. What’s he supposed to do without him? Where does he go from here? Why can’t he stop crying? Will he hurt forever?

She comes over, bursting into George’s house in a pair of loose sweatpants and a t shirt. She looks exhausted. It’s four in the morning. George doesn’t sleep anymore, but he remembers that other people do. 

Her hand is cool against his forehead as she kneels next to the couch and cups his cheek. He can smell the fruity body wash she always uses on her skin. Her lips start to move, and George struggles to hear her through the blood rushing in his ears like a whitewater rapid. 

“Lets go to bed, George.” 

“What’s the fucking point?” 

She shushes him and helps drag him into his room. 

Then, when he wakes up a few hours later choking on vomit, she helps him to the bathroom and dutifully cleans up his messes. She rubs his back and sponges the sweat off his face. She holds him and soothes him. 

And when, in his confusion, he calls out asking for Alex, she just nods and presses a kiss to his temple. 

“You’re okay, George. It’s okay.” 

“It doesn’t feel okay.” 

\---

George decides to start gardening. 

One cool, spring day, he goes to Home Depot and buys some raised beds, mulch, compost, and a few different started plants: Tomatoes, peppers, melons; that kind of stuff. Sweetie and Vulcan lay outside with him while he works, rolling around in the grass and enjoying the temperate weather. George takes a break from planting to play with them, rubbing both of their warm bellies and pressing kisses to their snouts. He tries not to think about Alex or the bitter words he spit out that night in the car: 

_“The townhouse; the dogs. That’s not what I wanted. I didn’t sign up for this shit.”_

George just focuses on his plants, touches the tiny, delicate leaves with his dirt-caked fingers. 

His knees crack when he stands up, and the dogs nearly knock him over after he calls them inside. He finds himself chuckling and marvels at the feeling of it. 

He doesn’t laugh much anymore. 

But looking outside his window at his small garden is making him feel just a little bit lighter. Some of the tightness in his chest loosens. The sunset is more vibrant. The streets are a little kinder. 

And every day he watches his plants grow a little taller. 

\---

George lets Martha set him up on a date. 

It’s with a guy from her law firm, some guy named Nate Greene. A defense attorney. Martha swipes through a fast series of pictures over brunch one morning and rambles on about Nate and how great he is. 

He’s really funny and so sweet. A real great guy, honestly. Very well-read and intelligent. Bet he’s got a huge closet; he always looks so good. Coordinates his ties and pocket squares and everything. Known as a real heartthrob around the office. A real catch, you know?

George nods through it all, focuses on sucking down as many mimosas as he can before he starts to feel spacey and disconnected. He runs his tongue over his teeth, trying to remove the acidic coating left by the orange juice.

His date with Nate is that weekend. 

They meet at a nice Italian restaurant, the kind that has _actual_ Italian food. This isn’t some Olive Garden shit. 

Nate pulls his chair out for him and orders them a bottle of red wine before George has a chance to tell him that he’s not a big fan of reds. The lighting in the restaurant is almost ridiculously low, and the candle on the table throws sharp shadows across Nate’s handsome face. He plucks a piece of bread out of the bread basket and dips it in the olive oil. George watches him eat it, sad to find that he doesn’t have much of an appetite himself. 

But he sucks it up and orders some linguini carbonara, smiles politely at all of Nate’s jokes, and pretends to enjoy himself. He chokes down the ridiculously dry cabernet sauvignon, chasing it with water and tiny bites of his food. 

“You were in Kuwait, right?” Nate asks him over dessert—almond semifreddo—and coffee. George keeps the smile on his face by sheer force of will and nods stiffly. 

“Yep,” he says, struggling to keep his voice even. Nate grins, flashing two rows of perfect teeth. 

“I was in Afghanistan.” He pulls his dog tags out from underneath his shirt and jangles them before tucking them back in. “Seems like forever ago now.”

“Yeah,” George quietly agrees.

Nate insists on paying, and, even though he didn’t particularly enjoy himself, George goes back to Nate’s minimalistic, painfully hip loft and fucks him into his nice memory foam mattress. George comes so hard that it makes him dizzy.

Then he declines Nate’s invitation to stay, leaves, and goes home to his dogs and his garden.

\---

George takes the dogs on a walk once spring finally bleeds into summer. As they walk, he relishes the feeling of the sun warm and comforting on his face. He’s missed the summer. 

Sweetie and Vulcan tug mercilessly at their leashes, desperate to run ahead, but George clucks his tongue and gently pulls on their leashes. He tries to reason with them, reminding them that they’ll be at the dog park soon, but he soon gives up after realizing that reasoning with dogs is, and always will be, an exercise in futility. 

He unclips their leashes as soon as they get to the dog park and watches them run off, barking and yapping at each other. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck, but he doesn’t mind. He’s always loved the summer and the endless possibilities that come with it. 

_“George?”_

George immediately stiffens and turns to see Alex standing there hand-in-hand with Jack Laurens. A beagle puppy tugs at a blue leash that Alex is holding in his hands, and George tries desperately to keep the shock off his face. He smiles pleasantly and tips his head in greeting. 

“Hi Alex, Jack,” he says. “Nice to see you.” Then, glancing down at the dog again, “cute dog.” 

There wasn’t any heat behind the words, but Alex still winces. Jack leans over and murmurs something in his ear, and Alex absently hands him the leash. His eyes are trained on George, and George fights the urge to break the eye contact. 

“You look good, George,” Alex says softly once Jack walks away. He throws a cautionary glance over his shoulder before turning back and smiling at George. “I’ve missed you. How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been well,” George says lightly. “And you look good too. Congratulations. On you and Jack.” 

A pained look passes over Alex’s face and he rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks.” 

The silence that settles around them is thick, matching the humidity in the air, and George awkwardly clears his throat. 

“I started a garden,” he blurts out. Alex gives him a bewildered look but George just shrugs. “I needed a hobby to… fill the time. It’s fun.” 

Alex’s face breaks into a genuine smile and he reaches out to pat George on the shoulder. “That’s great, George. I know that’s something you’ve always wanted to do.” George nods and ducks his head, hoping the flush from the heat hides the way his cheeks are burning.

“Yeah, it’s nice. Very peaceful.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “I’m spending some time taking care of myself.”

“I’m really happy to hear that.” Alex takes a step closer and looks up at George hesitantly. “I worry about you,” he whispers. 

“I don’t need you to worry about me,” George says immediately. “I can take care of myself.” 

Alex’s smile falls and he nods. “Of course. I didn’t mean—”

“Alex,” George says, “please.” Alex stares at the ground and nods. 

“Sorry.” He reluctantly meets George’s eyes again and extends his hand for a handshake. “I really am glad you’re okay.”

George shakes his hand and nods. “Thanks, Alex. It was nice seeing you.”

He steps around Alex and calls for Sweetie and Vulcan. 

As he makes his way down the path, he can feel Alex’s eyes on his back, and he’s pleased to find out that he doesn’t really care. 

He started a garden and his tomatoes are in bloom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah this was fun lmao. 
> 
> I fucking love Lorde.


End file.
